


Regulation Green

by nmnostalgiadrabbles



Category: Tigerland (2000)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29477490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nmnostalgiadrabbles/pseuds/nmnostalgiadrabbles
Summary: Bozz is compelling, Paxton thinks about him, they kiss.
Relationships: Roland Bozz/Jim Paxton
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Regulation Green

**Author's Note:**

> this past week ive been down a colin farrell hole after watching the decent but cheesy 's.w.a.t.' on netflix, which led to me watching tigerland, the only war movie i'll probably ever enjoy because it isnt just misery porn and nationalism, and thus this fic was born.  
> i dont want to subscribe to the idea that there just has to be romance between every two male characters that appear on screen together because i think it devalues actual friendships between men that can and should have emotional depth, but i have to say i really did feel like pax and boz had chemistry. ahhh  
> unbeta'd as always, so please be kind as i post this fic for an obscure movie 20 years old lol

Prior to enlisting, Paxton hadn’t thought a whole lot about what the word _tender_ meant. It was only a word, not one he used often when writing, and more likely to be contemplated by the women (woman) he saw (had seen) than a private preparing for the Vietnam war. The army wasn’t a place for tenderness, after all, and the words he kept tossing around in his head were those like _pride_ , _sacrifice_ , _courage_ , and, when he was feeling bitter (honest), _futile_. And yet, tenderness was exactly what he found when he arrived for camp and marveled at the character that was Roland Bozz. 

Everything was shit, worse than he imagined, but then there was Bozz, hardly older than any of them, crouched by Miter’s cot soothing him with words and actual touches – his actual hand holding Miter’s face like he mattered because, it seemed, everyone mattered to Bozz. Paxton had thought it incredible, in that it was almost unbelievable, and immediately, even though it was a moment he’d never forget, went to write down his thoughts. 

There were a few times Paxton began to think Bozz was another creature all on his own, and that’s why he was the way he was, but then they found women together, smoked and drank and couldn’t bring themselves to jump from the train, and he knew that no, Bozz was human, because he was afraid too. It was more evident between the misfire behind his head at Wilson's hands and the move to Tigerland, how scared he was. He didn't horse around, and he swore softly, with feeling, when no one - besides Paxton - was watching. Paxton was conflicted, because he didn't know how to comfort Bozz like Bozz comforted everyone; it was another inexplicable ability of his, and whatever words and touches Paxton offered weren't enough, he knew. 

When they were digging that first hole together, in the moments where they didn’t speak – because it was back-breaking work – Paxton wondered how Bozz could be so open with his feelings, how he could be so genuine, which again, was astounding because there were consequences. It wasn’t as if they were all attending a poetry reading and that was the point and letting people see you would get you applause; here, at camp, showing your discontent, your pain – such exposure was weakness and all around were superiors and peers tense in their desperation to exploit. 

But still, Bozz mouthed off and stood for what he felt. It was captivating and it made Paxton want to join him, and so he did. He jumped off the truck in favor of jogging back to base, and he picked up a shovel and slung dirt till his arms shook and his palms bled. They screwed around a little, tossing dirt on each other and wrestling even when they shouldn’t have had the energy, till Bozz sat atop his waist and they spent moments smiling and catching their breath. 

“What if I held you here, like this, till the war was over,” Bozz said. 

Paxton raised an eyebrow. “You think you could keep me down?”

Bozz laughed, and Paxton watched both his boyish face - with those big brown eyes and not necessarily long but thick, dark eyelashes - and soft, absolutely filthy, muscled torso shake as he did. Like it was the natural thing to do, because it _felt_ like the natural thing to do, Paxton lifted his hands and put them on either side of Bozz’s hips. Still grinning, but attentive, Bozz looked down and put his hands over top.

“We should get back,” he said, standing, and held out a hand. 

That night in October, as they sat on the rail car, they shared more than words. They kissed, and it was surprisingly not sexual, especially considering just how much they’d drank. They were practically flammable, but Bozz tasted less like alcohol and more like something that made Paxton’s chest tighten, and little like blood after his split lip opened again. It was just soft lips – soft like everything else about Bozz – warm breath, and tender, tender fucking hands touching his arms, his neck, his face, and Paxton thought that if he cried, which he kind of felt like, Bozz wouldn’t make fun of him for it. He’d give him shit and laugh, but he would also keep kissing him.


End file.
